


brevity

by quiescentry



Category: South Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 22:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13467705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiescentry/pseuds/quiescentry
Summary: Dialogue between a vigilante who mistakenly breaks into someone's house and the someone who tries to deal with it.





	brevity

 

When Craig was in 2nd Grade, he thought he had handled the concept of death pretty well.

Stripe the First had died in his hands from some nasty guinea pig sickness (young neglect). He felt its little body lose its warmth in his palms, and its life melted through his hands and bore a small hole in his heart. But somehow, he knew he could move past it.

Stripe the Second, and Stripe the Third - they all passed in ways that were different and the same. The empty feeling that expanded in his chest was constrictive and unchanging, but otherwise, he told himself, he would be okay.

Death comes and goes - such was life. The sooner he accepted it, the better.

Things change drastically, however, when he woke up to a loud crash and frantic breathing next to his bed.

A purple clad figure with an obnoxiously bright green question mark lay on the floor, his carpet stained several shades deeper where he was.

"What the fuck." Craig says, unsure, then tries again. " Who are you?"

The figure rolled over, revealing a mask and a bloodied mouth.

"Oh, shit." He says. "Wrong house."

"You had a target house to break into so you could bleed on the floor?"

He grunts, and tries to push himself to sit up, but his arms end up flailing around uselessly. "Fuck."

Craig just stands there and stares. "Can you at least answer one question from someone who is allowing you the privilege to die in his house? You are so fucking lucky my parents are out."

"Mysterion." He says, and Craig vaguely remembers seeing that name plastered all over the newspapers he doesn't read. "Vigilante. I got shot in multiple places and tried to run away before, I, agh. Fuuuuuuck. This shit hurts."

Craig notes the tone of annoyance in his voice instead of, you know, fucking anything else when one is about to die. He pinches himself, twice, and sighs in similar annoyance when the stranger does not disappear.

"Great. This is great. All of this on a fucking school night. I have a math quiz tomorrow and someone just broke into my house and broke all my windows and bled all over my carpet." Craig runs his hands through his hair. "Do you want some water?" He blurts out, and immediately regrets it.

"For the record," Mysterion says, carefully tearing his cape off to bandage his stomach, "you sound really fucking calm for someone who just had their house broken into. I find that impressive. And thanks, but no thanks. Don't bother."

"Thanks. So you are admitting that you are breaking into my house - and you'll be paying for my fucking windows, by the way."

Mysterion laughs and it rubs Craig the wrong way. How does someone dressed in something so gaudy still have self-confidence, he doesn't know.

"Real nice of you to leave out the laundry fees for your carpet."

Craig stays quiet, shifts, and kneels down to inspect Mysterion carefully. His hand hovers over the mask, and Mysterion whispers, "Don't." and his hand jerks back immediately.

"You're not someone I know, right?"

Mysterion considers this. "Maybe. Maybe not. You deal with death funny, kid."

Craig is aware of what he's doing, but plays along. "What do you mean?"

"You see someone dying on the floor and you don't think to call for an ambulance is what. Do you see death often?"

No, he doesn't, he thinks. But he feels like it is something he can't answer. Like a lot of other things. Why his guinea pig died. Why he still continued looking after guinea pigs. Why he gave them the same names. He feels, but he can't put it into words.

The moonlight shines into the room to give insight, gentle and non-prying. But Craig, at the instrospective age of 16, still doesn't understand anything about living or dying. The answer is in his guinea pigs, he decides, but ends up asking, "Do you?"

Mysterion gives him a wry grin that burns with familiarity. "Too much. It comes with being a vigilante."

"No, I mean, do you want me to call you an ambulance."

Mysterion snorts. "Too late for that. Hold this," he says, holding his hand up after much effort. Craig holds it, half heartedly. He feels the other squeeze it.

He coughs, and smiles. "This is one of my nicer deaths. You won't remember this, but thank you."

Craig nods, absolutely sure that he will remember this - holding something that lived in his hand, feeling the warmth die out beneath his fingers - he's experienced this seven times already, and will mentally mark this as the eighth.

"You're welcome," he whispers, and means it.

-

The next morning Craig Tucker wakes up with a wicked headache, his windows unbroken and carpets clean. He feeds Stripe the Eighth and wonders why the hole in his heart feels like its grown eight sizes, why the number eight was so important. He decides that, to find answers, he's going to have to read the newspaper today.

**Author's Note:**

> will probably regret writing this at one go and posting without checking but sometimes you just gotta get it out there ya kno


End file.
